Kate’s Birthday was 9 days ago.
Now, in my defense, we did make the video on her birthday. I just couldn’t figure out how to upload the crazy thing until today.
And so, Happy Birthday to Kate .. . . a little late.
Peter and I travelled to Ecuador in August with Compassion International. You can read all my blog posts here.
This is a continuation of my last blog post. Here’s Part 1 (Doesn’t that make me sound all professional?!)
So, back to Jorge.
When we followed him back into the jungle to help him plant his cocoa beans, we had no tools.
Well, he did have his massive machete. So I guess that counts for something.
But we didn’t have knives to cut away the membrane from the seed. After digging my fingernails into the slippery stuff and failing, at the prompting of one of our Compassion Guides, I actually popped that baby into my mouth and sucked the membrane away.
At first, I was convinced I would die (if the predators/snakes/drug lords didn’t get me first, that is). But after I relaxed a little, I realized that the membrane was sweet and tasted a little mango-ish, only better.
Then, we had to dig a hole in the ground. Only there were no shovels. Jorge didn’t own a shovel. We had to find sticks that were strong enough to dig into the hard dirt.
I quickly became obsessed with how we could get Jorge a shovel.
His life would be so easy!
He could get so much more done!
He wouldn’t have to bend down so much!
I have all the answers in the world because I am an American and clearly have all the right answers!
Oh. Snap. The thought came before I could help it. And I was so ashamed.
Listen to me, dear brothers and sisters. Hasn’t God chosen the poor in this world to be rich in faith? Aren’t they the ones who will inherit the Kingdom he promised to those who love him? But you dishonor the poor! James 2:4-6
You see, I had gone into the trip determined to look at people with Jesus’ eyes. Poor does not equal dumb. It is not ignorant. And in the blink of an eye, I dishonored Jorge and his family, even if words did not come out of my mouth.
So, I’ve been thinking about my own life.
A girl is sitting on my couch, crying. She has questions. Do I have answers? Far from it. I feel totally inadequate, desperately searching the files in my brain to come up with something, anything to give her answers.
The kids are fighting (again.). Kate tells William that if she had been a boy, maybe he would love her. He rolls his eyes. My stomach hurts, it makes me so mad. I want to scream at them, instead I cry. I thought the hard part of parenting would be the newborns– the feeding and the schedules and the pooping (or lack thereof). But this?!
My friend, she had another miscarriage. I should have the right words, shouldn’t I? I’ve experienced death, so doesn’t that make me an expert of sorts? But I keep my mouth shut, because I’m terrified that I’ll say something that doesn’t help at all, or worse, something that actually makes her feel terrible.
If only I had the right tools, I think. Truly, Jorge could do so much with a shovel. And if only I had some answers, some empathetic words, some extra spiritual wisdom, I could be so much more for God.
Hannah prayed in 1 Samuel 2:7-8:
The Lord makes some poor and others rich;
he brings some down and lifts others up.
He lifts the poor from the dust
and the needy from the garbage dump.
He sets them among princes, placing them in seats of honor.
For all the earth is the Lord’s, and he has set the world in order.
It occurs to me that the poor may not always mean those who have no money. Tools may be a relative term.
It also occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, God can do more with me if I don’t have the tools I need to do what He has asked me to do. When I don’t have the words, when I am desperate for answers, I seek Christ. I lean into Him. Isn’t that right where He wants me to be?
He leads me, one seed at a time. I suck on the sweet membrane of His Words and they sustain me. I dig into the warm dirt and as I ask for wisdom, I can rest in the assurance that He has set the world in order. That includes those who sit on my couch, who eat the food I prepare, who sleep under the blankets I have washed and piled on their beds. Also? It includes those who plant cocoa beans and pray for a harvest, who don’t know where there next meal comes from, and who drink water that makes them sick.
Kate lays beside me, she brushes away my tears, holds my hand and asks if I’m okay. In the blink of an eye I see Jorge’s family and how they have nothing, nothing. I feel so needy as I confess to God my complete lack of knowledge and my false sense of wisdom.
It’s grace that we need, depending on Him to provide the tools to walk through our days.
And maybe? Maybe someday Jorge will get that shovel.
** Peter and I went on a Sponsor Tour to Ecuador with Compassion International at the end of August. You can catch up on all my posts here.
It was in August, in Ecuador, that I found myself learning how to plant cocoa beans.
We were near the equator, in the region of Esmeraldas. We had driven for two hours in a bus where the driver alternated the brakes and accelerator with impressive rhythm that had most of us swallowing hard with every curve. It was when our faces couldn’t turn much greener that we pulled up to line of children, waiting for us with their homemade flags and bigger smiles.
The task of the day was to visit some homes, to better understand the children that Compassion International supports. Our group headed out to a family to help them plant cocoa beans.
Did I mention that this region has no roads? Homes were only accessible by boat.
When I saw the long canoes, loaded down with plastic chairs coming up the river, I had one of those moments. You know, the ones where you feel like you’re watching yourself on a movie?
I took a deep breath and off we went. Periodically we would meet another boat coming toward us, causing our driver to slow down. As the water rushed over our feet I looked back to see him scooping up the water and bailing it out of the boat while he steered. I wasn’t scared, necessarily, but I may have been a little concerned.
After about 20 minutes, the engine slowed and we pulled up to a small pier, climbed the ladder and were met by a quiet family. My heart leapt to my throat and I tried my hardest not to let my eyes water while I took in the scene before me.
The Mama, she was braiding her daughter’s hair, stopping to pick out the lice. “How many children do you have?” I asked in an effort to make small talk. Her eyes met mine with a questioning look. Finally she said she was having a hard time remembering.
. . . .. . . . . . .
I’ve been home now for a few months. The season has changed from hot and balmy to cold and rainy. And yet, in my heart, I am still processing what I saw for that one short week.
I’ve scrolled through the blogs and the websites, and I’ve seen the pictures just like the ones I’m posting. But experiencing just one short afternoon with these people– smelling the smells and taking everything in with my own eyes has done something to my heart that could never happen if I were reading someone else’s words or looking at someone else’s pictures.
When Poverty has a name, a face, and you look into her eyes, it twists your heart right up. Suddenly it’s not simply something that you give money to. The ache becomes bigger than your heart as you realize that this THIS is what Christ as talking about when He said,
“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves; ensure justice for those being crushed.
Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless, and see that they get justice.”
Proverbs 31:8-9
. . . . . . .
After a tour of their home, we set out to work. Jorge took us through the jungle and we came to a small clearing where he was planting the cocoa beans. He took his (huge) machete and sliced open the fruit, revealing rows of seeds. Our job was to take the slimy membrane off the seed, dig a small hole, and plop the seed in the ground.
Maybe our real job that day was to provide a laugh to Jorge? We fumbled all over ourselves, while he effortlessly did his work. It really was comical.
All of a sudden, I heard something crashing just beyond the trees . . . I instantly thought of any number of predators/drug lords/snakes that could be coming to capture me. Instead, a wild horse ran through the clearing and Jorge barely looked up. I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed.
After a few hours, we had put a good dent in the planting and we heard our boat coming in the distance. I prayed for balance as I gingerly stepped around the plastic chairs and was a bit more aware of the water already pooling around my feet. We took off, only to slow down a few minutes later. I saw some kids waving from the shore. They were part of the Compassion Project and needed a ride to the church for our celebration.
What did we do? We picked them up, of course.
It happened again.
And again.
Ten or so kids later and our driver was really bailing that boat out.
We got back to the town, the Americans carefully stepping out of the boat while the locals hopped out without a thought. We spent the rest of the afternoon serving the children a meal, singing and dancing together and just having a huge party.
But the day has replayed in my mind many, many times since then. I’ll have to tell you why later, though. This post is long and my baby is calling me from her bed. The big kids are due home soon and when they walk in the door, there is usually much emotion and loudness. A friend is coming over who has some big stuff going on in life and I pray I’ll have the right words to say.
And maybe the reason that day near the equator is so poignant to me has something to do with the ones that will walk through my door in these next hours . . .
My littlest girly turned two this week.
I hear her awake after her nap most days, singing to herself, “Hap Bir-day ME!!! Hap Bir-day ME!!!!” Peeking into her door, I whisper, “Eliza! Did you have a birthday!?” She nods her head up and down. “YEAH!”
“How old are you?” I say. And she raises the pointer finger on both hands, puts them right next to each cheek and says, “Two-ah!”
She got new blue shoes with birds on them, which are her three favorite things (blue, shoes, birds). How could I not get them for her?
And then there was the rocking horse from Papa and Dotsey that she promptly named “Eliza Grace” and then renamed “Hee-hee-hee-hee”.
Ah, we love her.
A few weeks ago, she walked up to a picture and said, “Baby? Annie? Me?” She was asking me if the baby in the picture was her or Annie. Allowing her to enter into our grief hurts a little sometimes. She is so joyful and innocent and I wonder how this will touch her. Will she get it? Will she feel slighted that she wasn’t part of us when it happened?
The story of our family goes on . . . and oh, I’m just so glad that I have the privilege of raising this one.
Happy Two-ah Birthday, Little E.
P.S. Language development? Well, it’s a beautiful thing. Unfortunately, Eliza is bringing many laughs to her siblings as she works certain letter sounds out. Her word for soup: poop. Her word for coffee: pee-pee. As if that’s not bad enough, she looked at me and exclaimed yesterday, “I’m TOOT!” (cute). William and Kate were rolling.
Sometimes I take pictures of food and think that maybe I’ll post a recipe.
Or I’ll see something in my house that I like, so I pretend I’m going to be a blogger that posts about how I decorate.
Or the kids. Yeah. My kids are cute. And funny . . .
And then when I sit down to write, words flow out of me that scare me a little. I wonder if it’s right to put words out there that are so personal.
Eliza gets into the markers and I don’t even notice because I’m not paying attention. I just keep writing.
When I was in third grade, my teacher told me that I was a good writer. Maybe I was. Or maybe I wasn’t. It doesn’t really matter. What matters was that I believed her and since then, I’ve worked hard to use my words, to craft them to convey what my heart feels.
There are other days when I sit down to write and nothing happens. Sometimes I just don’t want to. Or I have nothing in my head coherent enough to string together.
I’ll fold the laundry and think about something amazing . . . but it’s just too hard to put into words, so I end up not trying at all. Because haven’t we all had something that we thought was going to be the best, only to be embarrassed at how it really turned out?
And then? Then there are times when I write something that I’m afraid isn’t even true in my life. Am I trying to be someone that I’m not? Am I painting a picture of the person that I wish to be, when really my life is lying in shambles around me and I don’t even know how to begin to pick up the pieces?
Don’t you see why I just want to post a DIY and call it a day?! A picture of a few ingredients, a jar of modge podge . . . that I can do. Couldn’t I?
So much in our lives take courage. Courage to live, courage to be a friend. Courage to fail, courage to grieve the failures.
When we feel our courage hanging on by a thread, we finally realize that we’re where He wants us to be. At the end of ourselves, ready to let Him lead.
John 9:2-3 talks about the man who was born blind.
“Rabbi,” his disciples asked him, “why was this man born blind?
Was it because of his own sins or his parents’ sins?”
“It was not because of his sins or his parents’ sins,” Jesus answered.
“This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.”
I know that the hard things– the very things that I don’t want to write about– are the things I’ve been called to share so that the power of God can be seen in me. And it humbles me.
So I write the hard words . . . and I put that new recipe post firmly out of my head. Maybe someday. But not today.
What is He stirring in you? Don’t shy away from it. Skip the courage and bow your head. The Hard Thing just may be your next right move.
September.
I breathe in the fragrance of my very favorite patch . . . of Sweet Annie (yes! that’s the real true name!).
Is it a coincidence that it’s at its peak during the very hardest month for me?
Or does God just care for me that much?
Oh! He is good!
He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
He gently leads those that have young.
Isaiah 40:11
p.s. Sweet Annie is the tall, green ferny stuff (technical term) with the tiny yellow balls on the end (The flowers are zinnias mixed in). It is actually considered a weed, but I choose to ignore that fact. 🙂 It smells wonderful.
p.s.#2 Also? There’s nothing special about me. Pray that you will have eyes to see the Gifts Jesus longs to give you. You will find so many ways that He cares for you, in the same way that He has cared for me. I can say that with confidence because I knowknowknow it will be true.
I’ve been thinking a lot about fog lately.
I have vivid memories of riding the bus to school on those early fall Indiana mornings. I was one of the first ones on the bus in the mornings and the bus would be nearly empty as I made my way down the aisle. In the loudness of the engine and the jostle of the wheels that magnified each bump, I would lean my cheek against the window and look out over the fields. And on many mornings, we would lumber down a hill and find ourselves in a pocket of fog. For just a few seconds we would be enveloped in the mist before we would ascend the hill and it would disappear.
After the hot summer winds, when the coolness of Fall begins, I love to stare out the window, coffee in hand and watch the fog slowly disappear. There’s a hush on those mornings and things seem to slow down somehow. The heat of the summer, along with the fun of late nights and busy-lazy days, is giving way to something new and unknown about the new season. I fight fall because it means my kids are getting older and the unscheduled summer will soon give way to the over-scheduled school season, but I love the mornings when I can slip away and feel the fog.
How vividly I remember taking my sick baby to the emergency room, knowing that something was desperately wrong with her. When they moved us from the curtained room to the private room and I looked up to see the doctor with tears in her eyes and I heard the door click shut, I felt myself sinking into a deep fog.
And when, a mere week later, I watched the truck pull into the cemetery to dig a hole meant for my Annie, I thought I would drown in that fog and that I would never breathe normally again.
Shortly after Annie died, we took the kids to the doctor for their annual check-ups. Our doctor took our hands and he prayed for us and told us that the human brain will only process what it can, as it can. Eventually, the mind-numbing tragedy would become clearer. The fog would slowly lift.
As that mound of dirt over her body slowly sunk until it was ground level and then grew grass, I experienced some of the richest times I’ve ever had in my relationship with Christ. He enveloped me and gave me peace. The words of the Bible rang deep and true and brought comfort. The notes and cards and “I’m praying” reminders were daily. The unimportant things in life were stripped away and were strangely hard to see. In my deepest pain, I was most sure of who I was.
When you lose a baby, or overcome an obstacle that most people have nightmares over, they will often tell you that you are strong. Only you will know that the total opposite is true as you feel like you’re dangling off the edge of a twelve story building with your fingers slowly slipping.
Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
2 This I declare about the Lord:
He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
he is my God, and I trust him.
3
For he will rescue you from every trap and protect you from deadly disease.
4
He will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings.
His faithful promises are your armor and protection.
Psalm 91:1-4
When my fingers failed me, and I found myself tumbling down, down, down . . . He caught me. He gave me a refuge, a shelter, a fog.
I nestled into that fog, I wrapped it around me and breathed it in until my lungs hurt. I sat on the couch during nap time and I just stared out the window. I went to bed each night, simply relieved that I was one day closer to Heaven. My sadness scared me, my grief was overwhelming, and I’m sure Peter wondered if he’d ever have his wife back. But in the midst of it all, I had Jesus. And I knew that somehow I would be okay.
Saturday marks three years since The Day My Life Changed. This summer, well, it’s been the hardest season yet since the days immediately after Annie died. Because the fog finally lifted. I was forced to deal with some things that I had stuffed down deep, thinking they would disappear (p.s. they don’t disappear). I’ve felt so fragile this summer . . . coming to terms with my identity now that the fog has lifted.
Dare I say I miss the fog?
But today is a new day. The season is changing and I know, know, know that the promises of Christ are still my armor and protection . . . just in a new way. A dear friend told me, “You’ll never get over losing Annie, but you will move forward.” That’s what I’m doing, slowly but surely.
A step at a time, I’m breathing in new air, filling my lungs with the sweet freshness of His Grace that goes before me.
So there’s this statue of a Virgin in the middle of Quito.
(Side note: How exactly do you explain the term “Virgin” to young children? It’s a bit tricky, you know?)
Anyway, the legend goes that she faces the North, so Northern Quito is blessed. Her back is to the South, and you can probably guess the conclusion is to that.
I’ve been thinking about that on and off for the past week or so.
William, the black-and-white son that he is, was swimming with his sister the other week. She jumped in the pool and when she got out, she had a wedgie. So he told her that her buns were showing. She translated that to mean that her swimming suit was immodest. And now? Well, she won’t even touch the thing. Never mind that it came from Land’s End– the epitome of modesty.
Kate is our passionate, emotional, beautiful girl. Often she can be quite feisty, to put it mildly. She’ll sit on her bed and scream things that wring my heart out. And I pray and pray and pray. Because it gets really hard sometimes not to get angry at her. I project out 10 years and I think about the battles we’ll be facing.
And then I stop.
Because? Because I’m going to believe more for her. I’m going to claim the truth that Christ holds her in the palm of His hand. That He created her for a purpose. That we are fighting for her soul and we refuse to let the words she is saying be true in her life. Not just because it’s good for her self-esteem, but because it is TRUE. I’m believing that in 10 years we won’t be fighting those battles at all, rather we’ll be watching her fall in love with Jesus more and more.
We started playing a game in our house this week called “Truth or Trash” (It’s an app, apparently, but I don’t have an iphone so I don’t know much about it). We make statements and then we proclaim if it’s a Truth or Trash. When I listen to the kids playing, I realize that it’s not just a game– it’s setting a foundation for their lives.
Words. True or not, they shape who were are. They ring in our ears until we convince ourselves that they are truth.
When I was 16 and in Driver’s Ed, I had a teacher who wasn’t very encouraging and slowly his words of criticism leaked into my thoughts about the kind of driver I was. Still, to this day, I hate driving. I have a hard time believing that I am a good driver, in spite of the fact that I’ve never had a warning, a ticket, or a wreck. A few years ago when Peter looked at me and told me I was a good driver, I was shocked. The thought truly had never occurred to me. Isn’t it ridiculous that I believed someone who only spoke criticism into my life for a few weeks?
All it takes is for me to hear one criticism, one misspoken word, and the voices in my head start going. Before I know it, I’m in an all-out battle for the truth. Suddenly I realize that Kate and I fight the same battle. The only difference is that she speaks her Trash out loud and I keep mine on the inside where no one can hear.
If I can only seize her words and teach her to change them into Truths before she figures out how to internalize her words, well, we’ll have overcome a humongous hurdle in her life. Same goes for me, huh?
The day the bus took us to the tippy top of Quito, Ecuador to see the massive Virgin, I stopped and I stared at it. You know, it’s nice. But it’s just a statue. To think that a superstitious belief about who would be blessed and who would not be has actually played out to be true . . . doesn’t that seem preposterous? Today there are people pouring their hearts and soul into restoring the City, determined to win the battle in overcoming the words spoken about it.
What would happen if we actually stopped believing the lies and the trash that we have been told by ourselves, by others, by Satan? What if we slowly allowed the Truth to leak into those cracks in our hardened hearts?
I love the Lord because he hears my voice
and my prayer for mercy.
and my prayer for mercy.
Because he bends down to listen,
I will pray as long as I have breath!
Psalm 116:1-2
Peter and I just returned from Ecuador with Compassion International. Catch all my blog posts here.
I knew that Jefferson had a birthday– his 18th, nonetheless– coming up in September. So while I was getting a backpack of gifts ready for him, I tossed in some napkins and candles for him to have a celebration.
The day before we were able to meet him, a few people on our team asked if we would be able to make a pit stop at the grocery store to buy a few staples for our families. “Peter!” I said, “Let’s get Jefferson a cake mix for his birthday!”
So as we were wandering the store, tossing rice and tuna and black beans into our cart, we looked for a cake mix. But then we wondered if he had a stove. Or a pan. Or eggs to add.
That’s when one of our amazing translators suggested that we just buy a cake and have a party with him. Awesome. We bought a cake in the bakery and added some plates and party decorations from his favorite soccer team (Barcelona).
And the next day we celebrated his 18th birthday.
It was so fun. So, so fun.
We laughed as he tried to blow out the candles and he blamed his lack of air on the altitude of Quito (well, it is 10,000 ft). We gave him his gifts and had a pretty frank talk about the responsibility of turning 18 and what he wants to do with his life (he wants to go to college and study computers).
We asked him about his life at home.
You know how dire the circumstances are when your 20 year old translator starts crying.
Juan told us that Jefferson’s father has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s at age 53. Because he cannot work, they have very little money coming in. In fact, their only income right now comes from collecting plastic bottles and redeeming them for a few pennies each.
There is a lot of gang activity in Jefferson’s town. Often he sees people lying on the side of the road, dead from a gun shot. He faces huge pressure to throw away his life and join the gangs.
We talked to Angel, his youth pastor, about the hard work they are doing in his town and the challenges they face to reach the young people. We prayed together and I couldn’t help but feel so very helpless.
In spite of that (and maybe because of it), we later enjoyed (of course) a soccer game. We so wanted our day together to be full of joy for Jefferson and his mom– a day they would always remember.
I have a few observations on the following photo: (1) There are no children bouncing in the bounce house. They are merely using it as a chair to watch the game– does this tell you how important soccer is!? (2) There were three characters on the bounce house: Spongebob, Spiderman, and Woody Woodpecker (random, yes?) and (3) Look at how close we were to the clouds! The altitude of Quito is mucho high (oh! Did you notice how I snuck that Spanish in? Pretty impressive, I know).
I had so much fun watching all these people from all over Ecuador and the United States play and laugh together. I sat with Jefferson’s Mom on the sidelines and we had a great time enjoying the game.
That’s Juan, our translator for the day, in the picture below. He rocked. Taught himself English when his dad bought him a Playstation and he wanted to figure out what they were saying. He’s now in University studying Computer Animation.
Peter got schooled by this little kid (and that kid was pretty happy about it! ha!) . . .
And we got a kick out of how cold these people were, even in the beautiful 70* weather. This man played the whole game with his huge winter coat on. He wasn’t half bad either . . .
My favorite part of the day? A few of our leaders worked really, really hard to make it possible for us to video chat with our kids. It only lasted a few minutes and I have no pictures, but it was amazing. I cannot tell you how important it was for William and Kate to see and talk to Jefferson. As I hugged Jefferson good-bye at the end of the day, he said to me, “Say hello to my fan club.” He nailed it. They love him so much and still haven’t stopped talking about those brief minutes.
At the end of the day, Jefferson told us that he still has every single one of the letters and pictures we have sent him over the years. He remembered the date of Annie’s death and they told us they pray for us each year. His favorite picture, though, was one that we had sent him when we were all making goofy faces. So what choice did we have?
I am in awe that God gave us this amazing opportunity. Seeing their faces and hearing their words made me sad and helpless. It’s so easy to downplay the poverty and violence in our world. And it’s equally hard to know what to do when the reality is placed in your lap.
What do you do when poverty is no longer a mere topic of conversation, but instead has a real face . . . a name . . . a soul?
“Let the dew of My Presence refresh your mind and heart. So many, many things vie for your attention in this complex world of instant communication.
The world has changed enormously since I first gave the command to be still and know that I am God. However, this timeless truth is essential for the well-being of your soul. As dew refreshes grass and flowers during the stillness of the night, so My Presence revitalizes you as you sit quietly with Me.
A refreshed, revitalized mind is able to sort out what is important and what is not.
In its natural condition, your mind easily gets stuck on trivial matters. Like the spinning wheels of a car trapped in mud, the cogs of your brain spin impotently when you focus on a trivial thing. As soon as you start communicating with Me about the matter, your thoughts gain traction and you can move on to more important things.
Communicate with Me continually, and I will put My thoughts into your mind.”
— Jesus Calling by Sarah Young (September 3rd)
P.S. I keep looking at these pictures and thinking about these words today. And I’m putting off the grocery store because I’m just not sure how I’m going to face the overabundance. I’m still sorting out the important and unimportant, and figuring out how to live life in the in-between of it all (also? I think I love the in-between, even if it isn’t very easy).